Second Sitting

by Stella Whitelaw

  There was a commentator on board giving information about the canal but it was hard to hear what he said. He was drowned by the noise of the engines. There was a party atmosphere and drinks were being served on deck. No one wanted to go inside to a bar in case they missed something. One of those snapping creatures.

  I had been through the canal several times so I was not glued to the rails on alligator watch. But I was always amused by the fact that in 1928 a certain mad Richard Halliburton paid thirty-six cents in tolls to swim the canal. It took him ten days and he didn’t get eaten. Sheer luck.

  ‘So how is life behind the scenes?’ Samuel asked, joining me on the rails. It seemed days since I had seen him although I had returned his robe.

  ‘Going well,’ I said. ‘No new disasters, as yet. Estelle seems to have calmed down. Ray Roeder was terrific last night. Mrs Foster has bought a lot of paintings.’

  ‘Ray Roeder was good. I caught the end of his show. You looked like a dream on wheels even if your shoes hurt. By the way, I think Estelle has other things on her mind. The pianist, Joe Dornoch, was in surgery today, asking for a private prescription for a certain erectile enhancement drug. Of course, it’s not something we stock but this looks serious.’

  ‘Really?’ I had to laugh. Sometimes the young have trouble in accepting a mature romance. ‘Estelle Grayson and Joe Dornoch? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed? They are never apart. Glued together like Siamese twins. Always rehearsing, using some discreet and forgotten piano at odd times. Love at fourth or fifth sight.’

  This was news and could explain the recently diminishing complaints. I hadn’t noticed. But if it was so, then I was really glad. Cruising was the place for romance to blossom even if others were totally missed out in the rush.

  ‘Maybe a little romance will hone down the sharp edges,’ I said. ‘Good for her. Joe is a nice man.’

  ‘How about your sharp edges? Do they need honing down?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I said sharply. ‘My hormones are intact.’

  I knew Samuel was laughing at me but I didn’t care too much. I was building up a barrier against his charm. Don’t look into his twinkling eyes.

  ‘Let me know when you need a little TLC.’

  ‘I’d prefer a prescription.’

  I continued my circuit of the Promenade Deck. My morning mile had been interrupted by phone calls and I was making up for it now. The stern was fairly empty as the view was restricted by steps down to the crew’s recreation area. But someone was tucked up into a deckchair in a corner, a towel over her face.

  She was still there when I made my third circuit, had hardly moved. It was the woman’s stillness that alerted me, and her disinterest in the tropical forest scenery that we were passing through.

  I waited until I was out of sight and out of hearing, then took out my mobile phone.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’d like you to come and meet someone on the Promenade Deck. Right now, please. Have you got a moment?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  I told him exactly where I would be waiting. The lifeboats were all numbered and I would be waiting below number five. A deckchair had been dragged to the rails, and it was pleasant to sit there with my feet up, watching the verdant green banks of dense tropical forest. An alligator slid down a bank into the water with barely a splash. I was also keeping an eye on the woman sitting so still.

  ‘So why are you being so mysterious?’ asked Richard Norton, strolling up. ‘I hope you aren’t wasting my time.’

  ‘I hope so too. I could be wrong, of course …’

  We went towards the deckchair at the stern, talking casually in low voices about nothing at all. The figure was still sitting there, towel over her face.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, stopping by the chair. ‘I’m Casey Jones. I’ve been wondering if you are feeling all right? Would you like some assistance? A drink of water perhaps? Or a cup of tea?’

  I lifted the towel gently, holding my breath. It would be disastrous if I was wrong. If the woman was a reclusive passenger, recovering from a hectic night.

  But I wasn’t wrong. The girl’s face was blistered and a mass of sores, her lips cracked. She couldn’t speak. She looked quite ill, her pale eyes shadowed and hunted. Her red hair was lank and tangled, her clothes crumpled.

  ‘Miss Hawkins? Rosanna Hawkins? Why don’t you come along with me? I think you could do with a cup of tea, a good meal, a bath and change of clothes, and some medication for your poor face. Don’t you think that would be a good idea?’

  ‘Don’t worry, no one will hurt you,’ said Richard Norton, helping her quite firmly to rise from the chair. He looked bigger than ever. He wasn’t going to let her escape again. ‘Come with us. You need some medical care.’

  ‘Please, please, I want to talk to my father,’ she croaked.

  *

  Rosanna Hawkins seemed relieved to have been found. She had been living in an airless dry-food store cupboard down in the depths of the ship, sleeping on the floor, little to eat or drink. She was once again taken to the medical centre for sunburn treatment, a bath and given a sedative. After several cups of tea, scrambled egg and ice cream, she was soon sound asleep. A female crew member was sitting with her.

  ‘Well done for spotting Rosanna,’ said Richard. ‘That was smart.’

  ‘It was the towel over her face.’

  ‘Quite a giveaway.’

  ‘It wasn’t a towel from a cabin. It was the kind the waiters use when serving very hot dishes. She’d probably nicked it from somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll come and talk to her when she wakes up. They have strict instructions to keep an eye on her and not to leave her for one second. Absolutely no excuses this time,’ he said.

  ‘And just in time,’ said Dr Mallory. ‘That face was a mess. First-degree burns. We’ve cleaned her up and made her a little more comfortable. She should sleep for quite a few hours till the painkillers wear off.’

  ‘Has anyone told her about her father?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it would be better to leave it until she wakes up. She’ll be more able to take the shock. I’ll tell her. I think she trusts me now.’

  ‘And perhaps I’ll be able to find out more about why she stowed away in the first place,’ said Richard. ‘I want a lot of answers. She is still in custody.’

  ‘And she is still my patient. I’d like to be there when you question her,’ said Samuel firmly. ‘Would that be all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Richard. ‘I’d like your support.’

  No one asked me to be present. And I was the one who found her. The two men had forgotten all about me and were talking about something quite different as they left the medical centre. It was pretty typical. I wanted to know what was happening. I also wanted to know why she had stowed away. But on the other hand, I didn’t want to be involved. It got me into too much trouble.

  Three strange deaths, a break-in, an overdose, a stowaway. It wasn’t your normal five-star luxury cruise. And that wasn’t even counting Hurricane Dora.

  Twenty-One - At Sea

  Table two, second sitting, had an extra diner that evening. Amanda Banesto had decided to join her aunt and it was obvious that this cheered Mrs Foster no end. For once she was smiling and enjoying the meal. She bought wine for everyone at the table, signing the chit without looking at the total. I was not needed as an extra body — sorry, extra diner.

  This might be an opportunity to talk to Mrs Banesto, so I went over to her table. She did not seem too dismayed to be on her own.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Banesto, may I join you as you are on your own? How’s your wrist?’

  ‘It’s a nuisance but not so painful. We take mobility so much for granted, don’t we?’ she said. ‘It’s a fiddle doing up a bra, or washing one’s hair but Amanda helps me. I shall be really glad when the plaster comes off. Please join me, and do call me Helen.’

  ‘Thank you. What a blessing to have Amanda with you,’ I said.
<
br />   ‘Yes, it is. But I’m glad she’s having dinner with her aunt this evening. I don’t want her to feel she’s tied to an invalid, having to cut up food.’

  ‘Then you don’t mind that she’s with Mrs Foster this evening?’

  ‘No, not now. I did mind when she first started going to Joan’s stateroom, nose slightly put out of joint. But this wrist thing has made me realize how much I need my daughter and there’s an old saying: If you want to keep your children, then you have to let them go. It’s very true.’

  My parents had had to let me go. I had won a scholarship to the London School of Ballet. They were both against it at first. Dancing was not a proper job. It was all right as a hobby, something to fill the evenings after work.

  ‘It’s a very wise saying. Did you know Mrs Foster was going to be on this cruise?’

  ‘No, it was a complete surprise. I expect you’ve gathered that we have been estranged for years.’ She sighed. ‘It was very silly and a long time ago. It happened one Christmas, the season of goodwill and all that. And I suppose it was George’s fault, rest his soul. Now that George is dead, it’s all very unnecessary.’

  I didn’t probe although I was curious to know the truth. These things often come out by themselves. It might be a long wait but on the other hand, Helen Banesto was thawing.

  ‘Did you go to the show tonight?’

  ‘No, I didn’t go. I’m not fond of the Old Time Music Hall songs. Not my cup of tea, flag waving and singing and all that. I shall catch the late film and then go to bed.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I smiled. ‘It’s a great film. A Johnny Depp. The story of J.M. Barrie, when he wrote Peter Pan.’

  ‘Depp is such a good actor. He reinvents himself with every part. So clever and always with such charm and odd-ball humour.’

  I was surprised that she seemed to know so much. She caught the expression on my face.

  ‘I used to be on the stage myself,’ she said. ‘RADA and then touring with a small repertory company. But I was only a struggling third-rate actress and never really made the grade to the West End, much to my disappointment and Joan’s delight.’

  ‘Joan?’

  ‘My sister, Joan. Mrs Foster. She was always jealous of everything that I did. And I was very glamorous in those days. The blonde hair, the sooty black lashes, the lot. I don’t bother so much these days.’

  But I could still see the remains of a youthful beauty in her velvety brown eyes and generously curved mouth. And Amanda was gorgeous. She got it from her mother. Those genes at work.

  ‘You’re still very good-looking,’ I said, wondering why she had let her hair go a dull brassy grey colour. And it was badly cut, as if she had chopped at it with nail scissors. ‘Why don’t you treat yourself to some pampering at our beauty salon? Have your hair done. It would save you the effort.’

  ‘Looks are not worth having,’ she went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘They have brought me nothing but trouble. My husband was a handsome Italian actor. He fell for my glamour. When the novelty of an actress wife wore off, he went in search of pastures new, younger and richer. I was always having to leave home at some unearthly hour for filming.’

  ‘But you still do some work, don’t you?’ My memory cells were clicking in. I’d always thought her face and voice were familiar, but couldn’t place where or when. Why did I think bathrooms?

  Helen Banesto nodded. ‘Whenever they want some dowdy-looking housewife in an advert, they phone my agent. At present I’m seen cleaning a family bathroom, looking stressed and distraught at the mess left by teenage children and slobby husband. Then along comes some wonder cleaner and does the work for me.’

  ‘And very well you do it,’ I said with a smile. ‘I remember now. Acting the part, that is, not cleaning the bathroom.’

  ‘That’s how I can afford to treat Amanda and myself to a cruise now and again. I’m cleaning an Aga next month, if they can write the wrist into the script.’

  ‘How about you pretending in the ad that you’d broken your wrist in order to get out of doing the cleaning? Then teenage children and slobby husband would have to do it for you?’

  She laughed. ‘That’s good. I’ll send them an email. They might go for it.’ Then she sobered. ‘It was such a shame about George. I am still fond of him.’

  ‘So you knew him well?’ The words slid out as an afterthought.

  ‘Very well, indeed. We were sweethearts and engaged for a time. He thought it was really up-market to be seen at art shows and exhibitions with a glamorous young actress on his arm. And I enjoyed his company and his serious interest in art. He also paid for a lot of meals and sometimes, as you can imagine, I was out of work and quite hungry.’

  I saw a look of pain cross her face. It could have been memories or her wrist. Then she pulled herself together as the waiter came and took our orders. I noticed that she chose dishes that she could spoon or fork up. Broccoli and Stilton soup and a mushroom risotto.

  ‘It was for the best. He would have hated me going away touring round the country in rep and I wasn’t ready to give up my career. I still had high hopes of becoming a star. Then Joan appeared on the scene and George was a sitting target. She’s always been more intelligent than me and she could talk about art. Before you could say Paul Cézanne, they were engaged, looking at houses and mortgages, booking a wedding and reception. They had the decency not to ask me to be a bridesmaid.’

  ‘So Joan stole your fiancé?’ I said. ‘From under your nose.’

  ‘More or less, although our engagement had been teetering on the rocks for a while. I think George was relieved to be marrying the more sensible of the two sisters.’

  ‘So that’s why you and Joan haven’t been talking for all these years.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t only that. I accepted that I had lost George. Something else happened. It was the first Christmas in their new home, everywhere brand new, spotless and redecorated, Joan and George being the good host and hostess. I was invited along although to tell the truth, I didn’t want to see them actually living together. It still hurt.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The soup arrived. It smelt delicious. I’d chosen the same to make it easy for Helen.

  ‘Joan cooked a very nice Christmas dinner and we had all the trimmings. They made me feel welcome although I was still uncomfortable. We opened presents and had lots of coffee and strange liqueurs they’d bought on their honeymoon abroad. I think it was the liqueurs that did it.’

  I held my breath. I had an inkling of what was coming. It often happened at Christmas parties.

  ‘Joan went upstairs to change into a different dress for the evening. George caught me in the hallway and started kissing me under the mistletoe. He was feeling very affectionate and, I think, somewhat guilty that he had treated me so badly. Well, I let him kiss me. It was Christmas after all.’

  ‘And Joan came downstairs and found the two of you in the hall?’

  ‘Absolutely. She was furious, accusing me of dreadful things. We both said things we didn’t mean. There was the most awful scene and I fled the house, out into the dark and the cold. I don’t remember how I got home. And she’s never spoken to me since. And I’ve never spoken to her. Not a word.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time to make it up,’ I said. ‘After all, it was Christmas a long time ago and there are always a lot of boozy kisses around at Christmas. They don’t mean anything.’

  ‘That’s what I think now, especially as George has died. She’s had him all these years, all to herself, living the good life. It’s no good living in the past. The past is over and done with. Though I’ve had to work hard to keep Amanda and myself while Joan has had it cosy.’

  ‘I think you had a rough time,’ I said. ‘But you do have the most lovely daughter.’

  ‘Yes, Amanda is a great girl and her modelling work is growing. But it hasn’t been easy for her either, seeing her fiancé killed. The police have never found him, you know.’

  I left Helen Banesto
accepting a refill coffee and some coconut confection. The perk of second sitting was that there was not the same rush to get up and leave at the end of the meal.

  Joan Foster and Amanda were leaving the dining room. They were still talking and Mrs Foster had taken Amanda’s arm. She did not look as well as she had an hour ago. Perhaps eating in full view of everyone in the Windsor Dining Room had been a strain. And at the same table where her husband had died.

  ‘There’s a very good film this evening,’ I said. ‘Starring Johnny Depp in Neverland. He plays James Barrie, the author who wrote Peter Pan. It’s a fascinating story about how a writer’s mind works.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ said Amanda. ‘Why don’t you come with me, auntie?’

  ‘I’m a bit tired,’ said Mrs Foster. ‘I might have an early night.’

  ‘It’s too early to go to bed. Come and see the film. It’ll take your mind off things. If you don’t like it, you can always get up and leave.’

  I left Amanda trying to persuade her aunt. Well, it might work. You never know who you are sitting next to in the dark. I was just in time to sign off the second showing of that evening’s Music Hall show.

  ‘Cutting it fine again,’ said Trevor, as I swept past him and on to the stage. He thrust a Union Jack flag into my hand. All the audience were flag waving, too, and singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, I think it was, or was it ‘Jerusalem’? Something stirring. I nearly knew the words. But I know how to stand on stage and make my mouth fake almost knowing the words.

  The cast were exhausted. They came off perspiring and gasping for water. They had so many changes of costume and wigs, many of them weighty and voluminous. Their dressing room was cramped, packed with rails of clothes, no room to change in a hurry or for modesty.

  ‘Well done. Great show,’ I said, but they were too weary to even listen. I was left standing alone, suddenly very alone. Where had everyone gone? I had the busiest job, meeting dozens of people every day, always talking, sorting problems and making things work. But now I was completely alone.